


The Road to Healing

by EarendilEldar



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Love, M/M, Maedhros still needs help with some things, Nightmares, Poor Maedhros, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Undying Lands, Valinor can't fix everything, could have more... no promises, to be honest... I just wanted to torture Maitimo some more!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-06 02:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19053556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarendilEldar/pseuds/EarendilEldar
Summary: After "Many Meetings", Fingon has Maedhros back (again) and this time he's not letting go - but things might not be quite so perfect yet.  Maedhros still has a long road to healing ahead of him, and he can't go it alone, despite his insistence otherwise.





	1. Chapter 1

“You must have rest,” Elrond had insisted.  It was rather amusing for the little Elfling he’d helped raise to be fussing over him, telling him what he _must_ do.  Surely he was still one of the youngest Elves in Eldamar… yet he had also clearly become a very well respected healer over the few thousand years of his life.  And so Maedhros had nodded compliantly and accepted that he needed to rest after having been (mostly) remade and sent forth from the Halls of Mandos.

And then Fingon had insisted on taking Maedhros home… to _his_ home, and for a moment, Maedhros didn’t know how to respond.  Yes, of course being with Káno was what he wanted, truly, but… was it always to be Findekáno taking care of him? 

“If you can ensure that he _does_ rest,” Elrond had said to Fingon.  “It may have been quite some time but I seem to recall that he was not always the most biddable of patients.”  The look Elrond directed at him made Maedhros wonder what healer Elrond had trained under.  Whoever it was had certainly taught him that very particular wry, demanding, rather defiant look that they all had. 

“Stubborn as any Dwarf, I think you mean,” Fingon supplied, keeping a possessive hold of Maedhros’s arm.

Maedhros groaned, knowing well when he was beaten.  And so, he went with Fingon to his home on the west side of the great city.  And the whole way there, he could only think that this didn’t feel as perfect as he’d imagined it might.  In fact, it didn’t feel perfect at all.  It felt awkward, like asking for a favour he had no right to seek.  Fingon hadn’t said much along the way, and Maedhros was too discomfited to attempt conversation either.  What would he say if he did?  Well, quite a lot, really - there were literally ages standing between them – but that was just the trouble.  There was nothing he could say casually… but it just wasn’t the time for saying anything momentous, either. 

And so Maedhros just walked along, glancing surreptitiously at Fingon every so often and wondering had there ever been a more perfect, beautiful being.  Fingon had said he wanted nothing more than Maedhros’s arms around him, and Maedhros had given his imperfect arms gladly, but… Fingon could have the love of any Elf he chose, so why –

“…many rooms,” Fingon said as they walked together into a fine, lofty home, and Maedhros realized he’d missed some of the conversation, wrapped up in his own thoughts.  “I don’t know why I chose this one, most of our people like it with Turgon more than here.  But I suppose I like the quiet.  You should probably take a room in the north end, it is shady and restful and that will be best for you.  My rooms are in the south and far too bright at mid-day to allow you proper sleep.”

“I want to stay closest to you,” Maedhros murmured reflexively.

Fingon glanced up and noted how tired Maedhros looked.  Certainly not as bad as just after… well, after they’d returned from Thangorodrim… but Elrond did urge Fingon to keep an eye on Maedhros, after all.  “Why not settle in the north room and I’ll stay close by?” he offered. 

“You needn’t do that,” Maedhros said quietly. He couldn’t believe he’d let that thought slip out aloud!

“It’s no trouble,” Fingon insisted. “Come, you are my guest.  Let me see that you are comfortable.”

“It’s not necessary,” Maedhros said a bit more firmly.

“Stop being stubborn,” Fingon said mildly.  “At the least, I shall help you into a comfortable sleeping tunic and plait your hair to keep it out of your -”

“I am _not_ an Elfling and I do _not_ require looking after!” Maedhros flared suddenly.

Fingon wasn’t quite quick enough to conceal the look of hurt and shock that crossed his face and lingered for a moment in his eyes.

Maedhros deflated at once, swallowing hard and dropping his head.  “Gods, Káno, I am sorry.  I did not mean to shout at you, I swear it.”  He took a long, deep breath.  “I don’t know what I’m feeling from one moment to the next,” he said, his eyes searching Fingon’s for any hint of understanding. 

“You are overtired,” Fingon said quietly.  “Elrond is correct, you need rest.  I will not push where or how you do so, but I do insist that you rest.  And you may ask me for anything you need.  I certainly don’t think you an Elfling, but I _can_ help, if you wish it.”

Maedhros glanced away, wondering that Fingon still had such capacity to forgive.  “Will rest help?” he said doubtfully.  “I should be thanking you, I should be savouring every moment you stand beside me.  Yet, I find myself questioning everything and snapping at the one who cares enough to want to assist me – yet again.  Please, lead me where you think best and I shall not bark like an ill-tempered hound again.”

Fingon shook his head slightly.  “You bark not like an ill- _tempered_ hound, but like an ill-used one, and ill-used you have been for a very long time.  Rest will help, yes, but not all at once.  It will take time; maybe much time.  But, after all, we have a rather infinite supply of that.  Come, Maitimo, I will show you the best place to rest here,” Fingon said, reaching for Maedhros’s hand.

The feeling of Fingon’s hand holding his caused his ability to think to come to a grinding halt.  His left hand, the appendage that had done the work of both hands for longer than he cared to think, had come to be so much more sensitive, as well stronger and more adept.  And yet, he thought now, without Fingon’s hand holding it, it had been as empty as the hand that won Beren the title ‘Erchamion’, as empty as that hand that remained still (for all he knew) chained to the peak of Thangorodrim. 

“Findekáno, I…,” Maedhros started, looking over at Fingon.  Then he gave up trying to put how he felt into words and pulled Fingon into his arms, where he had all but begged to be not a quarter-hour gone, and dipped his head to kiss Fingon’s elegant bow-like lips.

It wasn’t the first time they’d kissed, certainly not, but neither could remember having such a kiss since before Melkor began to sow his discord between the Houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin, before what happened at Alqualondë and Losgar, before Feanor was killed and Maedhros was tortured and Fingolfin crossed the Grinding Ice, before Himring in the cold marches became ‘home’, before more death and more misery broke wave upon wave, time after time. 

It was kiss, reciprocated and meaningful, but still nothing more.  It did not proceed to impassioned grasping or a consuming need for more.  It was just a kiss.  And Maedhros thought he began to understand just a part of why this reunion had turned ever so… clumsy.  Though their fëar had always been closer even than brothers, never had they gotten beyond mere closeness. 

Of course, those things weren’t done in the elder days.  The joining of two fëar was a very conscious process, a clear decision and something not undertaken without due respect.  Their fathers, ever at one another’s throat, would never have given their blessing, and afterward - all was constant war… never a time for such a thing. 

But here… perhaps it could be different here…. 

As Maedhros pulled back from the kiss, Fingon was looking at him surprise and hope.  Maedhros found himself wanting to reassure him some way, maybe by convincing him that, yes, _of course_ , he had _always_ loved him.  He knew that what Fingon had said was right, though.  ‘It will take time; maybe much time.’  Maedhros sighed a little.  That kiss was probably far too soon as it was. 

“Thank you, Findekáno.  You have ever given me more patience than I have deserved,” Maedhros said quietly. 

“Patience is what you need,” Fingon replied.  Then he turned and opened the door of the room they had stopped in front of.  “And rest.  Take it as you like, please, for as long as you like.  My home is yours, and always will be.”

With that, Fingon pressed Maedhros’s hand in his for a moment and kissed his cheek.  “Please rest, Maitimo?  I slept for almost a week when I was rehoused.”

“I will rest,” Maedhros promised, pulling Fingon into his arms and kissing the top of his head.  “And if I need anything, I will call.”

Fingon nodded, accepting Maedhros’s word, and left him to settle himself in as he pleased.  He chose not to go far until Maedhros emerged again, though.  Elrond had counselled rest, and Fingon was resolved that Maedhros should have it, whether he liked it or not!  Fingon went to fetch his harp and decided he would sit in a room nearby and compose the notes for the song he and Ecthelion had been working on when Maedhros arrived.

* * *

Black smoke rose all about, as if from the very inhospitable ground.  It was thick and choking, stinging the eyes and burning the throat.  The sky itself was stained red. Dark mountains of slag rose up to towering heights, as high as any natural mountain.  But nothing here was natural and there was nothing here to ease the heart.  There was only despondency and terror.

Maedhros looked up toward the peaks from where he stood upon the ground.  This was not how it had been, he thought vaguely.  As the smog cleared above him, Maedhros saw a sight that choked him worse than the festering miasma: upon the three peaks of Thangorodrim were chained all those he’d ever loved.  They all began to call out to him at once and he couldn’t tell who begged for the mercy of death and who for rescue. 

Then he heard the dark and terrible voice of Morgoth, rumbling and cracking like thunder and lightning, say to him: “ _Free one, and the rest shall die_.”

Maedhros fell to his knees, the rocky ground digging into his flesh, and wept.  For he knew the horror of that monstrous riddle – did he choose to free the one he loved the most or the least?  Whoever he freed would be condemned to living with the consequences of having endured morgul torture, while the rest could have the release of death.  Could he grant death to them all but bring down his father and hope that the lasting reminders of torment would be enough to restore reason to the mind and heart of Fëanor?

But his heart quailed as he looked up upon the faces of those so precious to him… the young sons of Eärendil (and how could he ever choose one and leave the other?); his dearest brother who loved those boys even more than Maedhros did himself;  Findekáno… who had been prepared, even in his heartsickness, to end Maedhros’s suffering when it was him upon that rock… who, alone, had come to find him, even without the knowledge that Maedhros had wanted to fetch him across to Losgar and refused to put torch to ship….   

From above, Fingon’s eyes, red-rimmed, sued for Maedhros’s attention as he whispered only, “Please!” and the word cleft Maedhros’s heart just as Gothmog had cleft Fingon’s head on that awful day.

* * *

“Maitimo!  Maitimo, wake, _please_!”

“I must not listen!” Maedhros cried out, his eyes shut tightly as he turned away from Fingon.

“Wake, Maitimo,” Fingon repeated softly, a gentle hand on Maedhros’s shoulder.  “You are safe here, with me.”

Maedhros cautiously opened his eyes to find himself in a fair, shady room, lying in a comfortable bed.  No foreboding land of evil incarnate was this, he now recalled, but the city of his birth, in the blessed Undying Lands.  And yet, even here, the shadows that had never ceased to plague him during his life in Endor followed. 

“I will never be safe,” Maedhros murmured, pulling away and burying his face in the pillow. 

“You shall be safe wherever I am, I give you my word,” Fingon said, his hand on Maedhros’s back.  “Together, we shall find a way to dispel these shadows forever.”

“Not if the Powers deem it otherwise,” Maedhros said bitterly.  “I am cast out from the one place my fëa might have found peace, eventually.  Sent back among the living and remade, still broken as ever I was in my first life!  Not even my hate-filled father has been made to endure this!  This must surely be the doom accorded to one who could not bear even a moment more of life’s distress.”

“No, I do not believe that, Maitimo,” Fingon said. 

Maedhros shook his head almost frantically.  “Call me that no more!  It is not true – well-formed?  Ha!  I am naught but _de_ -formed!”

“If you are, it is by my own hand,” Fingon murmured sorrowfully.  “But even in that loss, you are still the most well-formed, the most beautiful Elf I have ever beheld.  Maitimo… my beautiful Maitimo, I lo-”

“No!” Maedhros cried, jumping up almost as if burned.  “No!  You must not!  Go from me, Findekáno, please, before it is too late, again.  I will bring you nothing but unhappiness.  Please… you must go from me… for in my cravenness, I cannot bear going from you, though it would spare you.”

Tears stung Fingon’s eyes as he tried to blink them away.  “Oh, ‘Timo… that’s all over.  It’s done, my beloved, we have peace again and there is no more curse upon our people.”

“It is here where all our sorrows began, Findekáno, even in this same fair city.  Why should the terror not return as it once did?” Maedhros argued.

“Morgoth is more than just chained this time,” Fingon said, reaching out.  “And his servant is unmade.  Arda is changed in ways I cannot rightly explain, but Elrond was there and he can -”

“Why do you try to save me still, Findekáno?  Can you not see this evidence yourself?” Maedhros said, baring the scars on his arm and shoulder.  “They will not even remake my hröa.  My fëa will never be healed.  I would not have you bind yourself to such a ruined creature.”  

“Do not ask me to forsake you,” Fingon said, swallowing back a sob.  “I cannot and will not.  You are worth all to me, Maitimo, and I will not rest until you see it in yourself again.”  Fingon sat down on the bed beside Maedhros and pulled him into his arms, clearly brooking no further discussion.  “On the morrow, we shall venture west through the pass and seek the gardens of Irmo and Estë.  Clearly, Lord Nämo was neglectful in not sending you directly to his brother, but I shall see that amended, even should Manwë and such another power stand in my way!”

“Káno, you mustn’t -” Maedhros tried wearily, only to have Fingon touch a finger to his lips. 

“Peace, my beloved.  You are still bidden to rest, and so I shall stay here and guard your sleep,” he said, running his fingers through Maedhros’s long red locks.  “Sleep, and I shall sing to you as I did long ago.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, look... there was more after all :)

When Maedhros woke, he found he was still in Fingon’s arms.  His sleep had been not been further disturbed by nightmares and he wondered if it had been Fingon’s presence keeping those shadows at bay.  When he felt Fingon’s fingers lightly stroke through his hair, Maedhros’s scarred heart felt as though it would burst and longed to clasp Fingon’s hand and bring it to his lips.  He remembered at the last moment that he wasn’t capable of that; not with his left arm crooked under the pillow, at least.

“You have woken, Maitimo?” Fingon whispered, his voice gentle and refreshing and clear as the dew of Telperion. 

“Unless this be a pleasant dream,” Maedhros responded quietly, half afraid to learn it was.

“You are not dreaming,” Fingon promised.

“Please forgive me, Káno… yet again?” Maedhros murmured.  “I have been all outbursts and ill-tempers, and shadows of days I know not how long past plague me still, even here.”

“If forgiveness will ease your heart, then know that you have it,” Fingon said.  “But know also that I do not think you should need seek forgiveness.  You are hurt, Maitimo, and it is healing you need.”

Maedhros ducked his head against Fingon’s side.  “How long have I had to get over these hurts, Findekáno?” he said bitterly. 

“No time at all, I think,” Fingon said firmly.  “Was your heart to heal from anything in the midst of constant war and watchfulness, out there in the bitter marches of Himring, always dealing with your brothers’ machinations, ever ridden by your father’s curse?”

“Others had healing in Mandos, did they not?  Yet I was sent forth without any sort of healing.”

“And we shall see that put right.  I do not accept that you, alone, are meant to dwell here, still bearing the harms visited upon you in Arda.  I cannot claim to understand the purposes of the Powers in all things, but this is left undone, Maitimo, and it is not right.”

“Why do you bother about me, Káno?” Maedhros whispered, his voice gone rough as feelings he couldn’t name seized his throat.

“Because I love you, Timo,” Fingon said softly, stroking Maedhros’s hair.  “Because my blood begins to flatter me that you love me also.  Because I believe that we are meant to have peace here and that your release from Mandos was not a mistake, so there must be something more to be done.”

Maedhros was quiet for a long while.  He’s stopped Fingon saying the words the night before, but Fingon had slipped them in this time and now Maedhros could no longer convince himself, even feebly, that it was not so.  Of course he’d known it all along; they had loved one another since they were old enough to comprehend such a feeling.  The words had never been spoken between them, though they had said them just as clearly in touches, embraces, and kisses.  Their fëar, however, remained separate and individual.  Fëanor and Fingolfin might have tacitly accepted their sons’ bond of friendship, but any overt sign of a truly permanent bond would not have been so accepted.  Fingolfin would have come around, in time, once Fingon’s happiness became plain.  But Fëanor… never.

Maedhros sighed.  “I do love you, Findekáno.  I want to know again the peace of our youth… when I could hold your hand under leaves or stars, and feel your lips against mine, and hope that one day we might have a chance….”

“We will, Timo, we will have that peace again, you shall see,” Fingon vowed, holding Maedhros close.

“When I was rehoused, Káno, Lord Manwë spoke to me and said that there was ‘work left unfinished’.  I know not what he meant nor how I should go about finishing it.  I had thought that if I accomplished this cryptic task, I might be readmitted to Mandos evermore.  But now… I would not choose to leave you.  Yet… I would not have chosen to come to you as I am.  Perhaps you are right and you comprehend Súlimo’s riddle better than I.  I will go with you to seek help in the gardens of Lórien, if you wish it still, but, Káno?  If they cannot or will not aid me there… will you accept it, and me?”

“Accept it, yes, if they be powerless, even if I shall not _like_ it if they be merely unwilling.  You, though, I accept wholly, no matter the outcome,” Fingon said. 

Maedhros felt his fëa arch toward Fingon’s and pulled himself physically closer, desperately craving that acceptance.

* * *

“Are you certain of this way?” Maedhros as they made their way west through the Calacirya and their eyes beheld the Plain of Valinor. 

“Not truly,” Fingon admitted, “but it is said that the gardens are south of Valmar, and Valmar just south of Ilmarin.  So, we cannot be too wrong if we continue to the south.”

“Who knows the breadth of this land?  We could be walking for days…,” Maedhros said hesitantly.

“Aye,” Fingon nodded. 

Maedhros halted and reached out for Fingon’s hand to pull him close into a one-armed embrace.  “For me, you crossed the Helcaraxë.  For me, you dared Thangorodrim.  And now, for me, you encroach upon the lands of the Valar.  If this venture does not see us both expelled from this world until its unmaking, would you… upon our supposed return, that is… agree to become my husband?”

Fingon held Maedhros tightly and gave a short laugh.  “I think that the worst proposal I’ve ever heard of!”

“Then you’ve heard others,” Maedhros said, a bit dismally.

“I’ve heard _of_ others, you beautiful, jealous fool,” Fingon said with a gentle smile.  “Now, come,” he said, taking Maedhros’s hand.  “We may be walking for days indeed if we don’t set out properly.”

Maedhros tugged him back just a bit.  “But would you, though, Findekáno?”

“On one condition,” Fingon said seriously.

“Anything,” Maedhros said readily.

“If, and _only_ if, upon our ‘supposed’ return, you grant me a better proposal than that one.”

Maedhros ducked his head sheepishly but nodded.  “Then I shall think of the best way of asking that’s ever been heard.”

Fingon stretched up to kiss Maedhros’s cheek, then it was his turn to tug at Maedhros’s hand to urge him onward.

It was nearly midday when they passed east of the great city of Valmar.  They both slowed and stared in wonder at the great bell towers, all domed in gleaming gold.  Chiming could be heard as smaller bells rang in the gentle breezes.  The city itself seemed to exude peace and harmony and for a moment, both Maedhros and Fingon found themselves turning as if to approach the city, but Fingon shook off the lure first and tightened his hold on Maedhros’s hand. 

“Come, Maitimo, that we may the sooner return and I hear your fair proposal.”

Maedhros looked at Fingon and hoped against hope that Fingon might really accept him, even if nothing could be done to make him whole again.

“Look there!” Fingon called after they had walked some while longer.  “Do you see, on south and toward the west?  Those silvery trees?  They say the gardens of Lórien are all made of silver willows.  Let us go that way.”

Maedhros nodded and followed along.  He judged it would be evening before they arrived at that point on the horizon.  If it was not their destination, they would need to rest for a time and he hoped such a place would be suitable.

For hours they walked, crossing vast pastures of gentle hills.  All the while Maedhros and Fingon remained hand-in-hand.  Neither could remember when they had last spent so much time with one another simply walking, not even conversing.  The feeling of Fingon’s hand in his said more to Maedhros than any words ever could and the thought occurred to him that with Fingon beside him, he might not even miss his right hand so much.

Maedhros’s judgment proved accurate as they approached the woodland of silver willows just as the dimming light of evening began to take on its red-gold hue.  By then there was no doubt that they had come to the right place.  The songs of nightingales and heavy fragrance of night-blossoming flowers and rich, resinous cedars reached them half a league away.  The light under the trees was even dimmer, with the faint glimmering of glow-worms providing a dream-like atmosphere, as did the large pale-green moths that seemed to swim lazily on the air around red-orange poppies under the trees.

“Son of Fëanor… and son of Fingolfin,” said a voice from off in the trees.  Maedhros and Fingon turned to find a tall, fair, silver-haired figure robed in white.  “Welcome to Lórien.  Your arrival has been expected.  I am Olórin; you may follow me.”

Maedhros and Fingon glanced at one another.  They hadn’t expected to be expected, but followed along with the numinous Maia.

“We’ve come to seek the -” Fingon started softly, hoping their mission might be accomplished as directly as possible.

“The healing of Lórellin,” Olórin cut in.  “Yes, of course you have.  Come along.”

Fingon and Maedhros again glanced at one another, neither quite sure what to make of their guide.  Before long, they came to a lakeside where a small grey boat was tethered.  The lake was vast and in the midst of the water floated an island, wooded and dim and shrouded in a mist.  The water of the lake was still and reflected the many stars above on its surface, but also seemed to contain stars even within its depths.  Olórin gestured for the two Eldar to proceed him into the boat, then he took the tether from its post and stepped in himself.  Immediately, the boat began to move across the water as if of its own volition. 

When it fetched up upon the shore of the island, Olórin again gestured for Maedhros and Fingon to go ahead while he tethered the boat before leading them to the heart of the island – a small clearing where the petals of flowering trees carpeted the ground and a grey-gowned lady stood, her gaze turned upward to the stars.

“Come forward, Maitimo,” the lady said in low, calming tones, not taking her eyes from the heavens above.

Maedhros was loth to let go of Fingon’s hand, but as he had been addressed and Fingon not, he thought it better not to pose a challenge.  Instead, he leaned in and quickly kissed Fingon’s cheek, whispering, “I love you” as though by stepping into the presence of a Vala he might be disintegrated instantly.

Fingon let go of Maedhros’s hand and stroked his shoulder reassuringly.  Behind Fingon, Olórin nodded with a kindly smile.  Maedhros took a breath and stepped forward passed the cover of the trees.

“What do you seek, Maitimo?” Estë asked, slowly turning her face toward Maedhros.

For a long moment, Maedhros found himself struck dumb.  How could he answer such a question and not sound foolish before this Lady of the Valier?  He looked back at Fingon, hoping for help supplying a more eloquent response than simply, “healing”, but Fingon just looked back at him as if to say, “I could bring you here, but I cannot give that answer for you.”

What, then, did he seek? Maedhros asked himself.  As he turned his gaze downward, trying to buy a few more moments without staring blankly into the infinite gaze of such a spirit as stood taller than even he was, his attention came to rest on his right arm.  He reflexively rubbed at the end of it where once his wrist had been.

“I wish to be whole again, my Lady,” Maedhros found himself responding.

Estë stepped closer and reached out to touch the end of Maedhros’s arm.  “Do you believe that you are not whole now?” she asked, closing a hand over the long-since healed wound.

Maedhros kept his eyes downward and shook his head.  “I cannot be, my Lady.  You see my disfigurement yourself.”

“Sit with me, grandson of Miriel,” Estë said, and turned to lead Maedhros to be seated upon a stone bench that Maedhros was certain had not been there when he’d entered the clearing.  She sat at his right, still holding the end of his arm.  Maedhros half expected to look down and find a new hand sprouting from his arm like a new branch from where a limb had been chopped from a tree.

“Maitimo,” she said gently, “I cannot re-form this member.  The Firstborn Children of Eru have extraordinarily healing within them and the wound you took to this arm has long ago duly healed.”

Maedhros’s shoulders fell and his head lowered.  “But others were rehoused… without the injuries they bore in their first life,” he murmured.

“That is so, but their injuries were most often inflicted shortly before their fëa and hröa became separated.  This wound was healed and you lived long afterward.”

Maedhros was silent again for a long while.  “You mean, then, that… _this_ … has become a part of what I am?” he asked quietly.

“I mean, Maitimo, that healing is not always what can be seen with the eyes,” Estë said.  “This does not require healing,” she said, letting go of his arm.  “But your heart has borne many wounds, and known little tonic.  This is what prevents you from your wholeness, Maitimo, not your hröa.”

Maedhros lowered his head further still as he felt a wave of tears rush up at the truth of the Lady’s words.  “Say, then, that I may find such tonic here, please!” he begged.

“You may find such tonic here, Maitimo,” Estë said, wrapping her grey-clad arms around Maedhros and kissing the top of his head as in benediction.  Then she rose and stretched out her arm toward Fingon, beckoning him to sit beside Maedhros where she had been.  Immediately, Fingon wrapped his arms around Maedhros and held him tightly.

“You are whole in my eyes, Maitimo,” Fingon whispered tearfully, “whole and beautiful and perfect, as long as we may never be sundered again!”

“Káno!” Maedhros wept, desperately clasping Fingon to him.  “All I want is to be worthy of you, my beautiful, beloved Findekáno.  If I may be but that, I shall seek nothing further!”

“You are that, my darling, you ever have been,” Fingon promised, stroking Maedhros’s hair.

Neither noticed that the Vala had departed the clearing until Olórin approached them with two finely wrought glasses of a liquid which shimmered like the starlight in the lake.  “The waters of these gardens have given ease to many,” Olórin said.  “Drink now, and I shall you lead you to a place of rest in the great, misty halls of Murmuran, where you may stay until you are ready to depart again.  I think I may come to Tirion myself… strawberries should be just about in season.”  

Neither Fingon nor Maedhros remembered much after drinking the glowing water and following Olórin back to the little grey boat.  They woke together in a soft bed, swathed in blankets as voluminous as clouds, in a quiet, cool, shadowy room, the walls of which were covered with flowering vines and the floor of which was soft, sweet grass. 

For a long spell, they just lie together, drowsing in one another’s arms, their foreheads pressed together as if in a psychic kiss.  No significant or weighty thought came to either of them through the fogginess of half-sleep, they were only aware of the nearness of one another and that was all that mattered. 

After a time, Maedhros started to realise that his sleep, however long it had been, was undisturbed by nightmares for the first time since the Darkening of Valinor.  As he began to wake properly, he looked at Fingon, into his beautiful, soft eyes, and the certainty came to him that he would never again be troubled by the shadows that had dwelled in his heart and mind for the last ages.  It had taken all this time and a journey across the plains of Valinor for him to find healing and peace – and now he understood the words of Estë, that here he had found such tonic in the arms of his Valiant One.  

“Findekáno?” Maedhros whispered, lightly stroking one gold-twined plait, “Shall we return to Tirion, where I may ask you to be my husband and my heart’s ease forevermore?”

“Aye, my beautiful Maitimo,” Fingon murmured, tracing one interrupted red eyebrow with the tips of his fingers before pressing his palm to Maedhros’s cheek and drawing him into a long kiss.


End file.
